Zara Du Rose cuts a sharp silhouette in a cool white living room, standing in front of a navy leather sofa with faux fur throws bunched across the cushions. Willowy and statuesque, her copper hair falls in a flame against pale porcelain skin, lips stained a deep wine to match the magenta sheath dress that traces every line of her slim waist and shapely hips. Seamed tights climb the length of her legs in a row of tiny keyhole shapes, ending in black strappy heels, and she holds one hand on her hip with a stare that dares the lens to keep up.

As the shoot progresses, Zara eases the dress over her head and leaves herself in a black soft-cup bra and high-waisted mesh-paneled briefs that sit just below her navel, arms crossed lightly over her chest as she leans against the sofa back. The tights stay on, the seamed detail running like a dotted line up the inside of each thigh, and her pose shifts from runway sharp to something softer and more searching. By the later frames her shoulders are bare and her hair tumbles forward, a last look fired back through a slow, deliberate turn.